You Say Run
by empty gun
Summary: Short SHORT fic for a friend whose prompt was how Spike and Jet met in the first place.


Jet's fast gait turned into a full-blast run to the only awning on the street. It was a bus stop, but he wasn't taking the bus ... merely seeking refuge from the sudden rain that had prickled then a yawn of thunder and it lashed down. In a matter of seconds.

Halfway between wet and dry, sticky he stood under the small roof waiting for the rain to pass. The bus wasn't due for a while, but maybe he could catch a cab after all this. Night was falling and the streetlights were reflected in the gathering puddles. It was another full minute until he noticed a lank figure sitting on the bench, long legs jutted and crossed, a two day old newspaper across his face.

Tufts of dark hair stuck out beyond it and Jet heard the rustle of the paper as he lowered it and raised his eyebrows.

"Bus here yet?" he asked.

"It's not due for another thirty minutes at least," said Jet, fumbling in his pockets for a smoke. No sooner had it touched his lips than the man sat up and in a bleary voice asked for a light, having produced a cigarette himself from the folds of his suit.

"Eh, sure," said Jet, flicked the lighter in his direction. It flashed briefly in his eyes and there was something strange there, maybe one was just illuminated weird, but they had this old look. It was so weird and only lasted a second, but one of his eyes ... looked so old, for lack of better word. Like an expression Jet had seen worn by the chewed-up guys he'd worked with and only then in moments of defeat. Only in one eye.

The man sat back and they listened to the chorus of the city and the rain until the man spoke up. "So how much are you looking to spend?"

"Excuse me?" said Jet.

"You heard me ..." said the man, sitting up, cigarette held

loosely between his long fingers. "One hour, two hours?" He took a drag. "Three hundred for the first, then one hundred for every hour after."

"That's too pricey."

"You don't look like a man who knows his whores."

"I am a man who knows when something's too much, though.

Are you really propositioning me?" Jet cocked an eyebrow.

"You said I didn't look the type."

The man smiled. "Do I look like a prostitute to you?"

"I've heard some pretty strange things."

"I like that," said the man. "You can tell a lot --" he crushed the cigarette under his heel, "by catching someone off-guard."

"I don't even see the point in that," said Jet, putting out his own and spreading his hands. "It's just a lot easier to introduce yourself sometimes."

"Why?" said the man, "I'll probably never see you again. Doesn't make much sense to know my name, but you got a weird story to tell."

"I got plenty of them," said Jet, trying not to sound impressed. The wet on his clothes was drying and making him cold. But there was something oddly genial about the man. Jet watched as he stood up and stretched. Cracked his neck. Uncrumpled.

"The bus should be here any minute," he said, and as soon as the words had left his mouth a sleek black car, windows tinted, washed and glinting in the rain, pulled up alongside the curb. The man placed his hands in his pockets as the windows rolled down, and Jet watched warily as his footsteps splashed to the curb, the droplets of rain instantly appearing on his dark suit.

Was this guy one of the ones he was looking for? Jet realized this was almost too easy and that made him uneasy. The bounty was on two small fries and if this weirdo got in the way ... Jet shrunk back for a second and watched. The man seemed to trust him too much and that was always grounds for suspicion.

He could barely hear over the rain the conversations, the men in the car and the man standing in the rain but a second later the two men exited the car and as soon as their doors shut, a gun was pulled from the pocket of man in the blue suit. Smooth as shit, droplets of rain running from it.

"Oh hell, no," said Jet.

"Hands on the car, boys," said the blue suit man. "You're worth enough for dinner tonight."

Jet could barely hear himself over the chorus of cursing and condemnations following this request.

"Hey," said Jet. "What do you think is going on?"

"I don't really care," said the man, "what you're doing here."

"That's why I'm here tonight!"

Jet strode forward as the blue suited man began to cuff them expertly, one hand still on his gun. This kid had style. But this kid was in the way.

"I thought there was only two," said the man, nodding toward Jet. "I didn't know there a friend of yours."

"A friend of ours?" said one of the guys from the car.

"Like hell," growled Jet, "This is the bounty I was here for. Got a good a tip, probably from the same sort of source you got yours."

"Another cowboy, huh?" man nodded. "Wanna give me a hand?"

This seemed an odd request and almost jokingly. Jet frowned.

"Split the bounty. I could use a meal too, you know." This seemed reasonable.

"I don't know," said the man. "Is it worth help? I could get two nights of dinner and breakfast for them."

One of the men twitched, posed to run and blue suit cocked his gun.

"I got a ship," said Jet, a bargaining chip. "And we'll forget you stepping in the way."

"Got any holding cells?"

"Got a storage room."

"I gotta get somewhere and make a call," said the man. "If you're carrying, now would be a good time lend a hand. We'll split the bounty, two dinners."

"You got yourself a deal, kid," said Jet and couldn't believe he was desperate enough for money to bargaining with another cowboy. But this was his damn bounty and he wasn't about to give free rides. He didn't know how seasoned this guy was, but two on one in this part of town with eyes in the sewers and streetlamps? He was asking for so much.

*

Later on the ship, bumming a smoke since he smoked his last, the man introduced himself as Spike Spiegel . Almost lazily, he'd said this and said not much more, asking if he had a place to sleep and Jet had scoffed but told him there were free rooms, he was alone. Maybe he was just trying to know him, always surprising, constantly putting him off, but on reflection of that night, Jet realized that was the only really useful, straightforward thing Spike would ever say about himself, for better or worse. Just his name.

He knew him the same person before he was given his name. He was still weird, troublesome, mysterious and when he left for the final time on the ship, what did he know about him? Little things, favorite foods, his name, but really? Next to nothing. Glinting old eyes and a strange walk and a knack for trouble. What a joke. He'd known that all along.


End file.
